


There's a Light on in the Bunker (you should be home)

by orphan_account



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Alternate Universe - Killjoys, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-04 21:19:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4153299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Decay Dance catches the S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W transmissions from Battery City and translates them to give Zone runners advance warning against attacks. Hearing of a particularly threatening mission, he sends Blurry Face and Migraine out to investigate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's a Light on in the Bunker (you should be home)

**Author's Note:**

> Pete = Decay Dance  
> Josh = Migraine  
> Tyler = Blurry Face  
> Joe = Young Blood  
> Patrick = Magic Trick

Resting on top of a dead refrigerator in the center of the cluttered bunker is an ancient concert speaker. To keep from falling off its perch, it’s partly wrapped in scraps of clothes too old and torn and bloodstained for further use. The speaker is connected to a piecemeal reconstructed transmitter and an enormous jumble of cords occupying a large portion of floor space next to three archaic portable generators stacked near the northeast corner of the bunker. A dusty light bulb hanging from the ceiling buzzes softly and casts yellow light through the crowded space. 

The southeast corner of the bunker contains a covered well surrounded by wooden crates full of nonperishable food. More wooden boxes and several filing cabinets clutter the floor and line the western wall of the bunker, which is broken by a bulky steel door marked with the word “Garage” and a smaller steel door marked with a crude drawing of a toilet. 

In the center of the eastern wall is a large green chalkboard smudged with a layer of dry white dust. On either side, the wall is plastered with wanted posters of Zone runners. The northern wall is covered in close to a dozen maps of the Zones, as well as a well-marked map of Battery City. There’s another heavy steel door set into the northwest corner.

Outside the bunker, there is a small radio tower holding up a satellite dish that points toward Battery City. The large dish is camouflaged the same dull light browns as the surrounding landscape. Both radio tower and satellite dish are layered in vicious barbed wire to ward off thieves. Inside, they connect through a tiny hole in the ceiling to the transmitter.

Without warning, the speaker starts blasting out garbled sounds set at a volume so high that every loose item in the bunker rattles.

From a large bed piled high with clothes and blankets and jammed against the southwest corner of the room, Decay leaps up in an adrenaline-charged frenzy. He grabs a piece of chalk from a repurposed aluminum can on the floor and his hands fly across the dusty chalkboard as he turns the inane sounds coming from the speaker into words and fragmented sentences.

The speaker blares sound for thirteen seconds before it cuts out. The sounds in the bunker revert to the faint buzz of the light bulb, the low hum of the generators, and the scratching of Decay’s chalk on the board. 

Decay keeps writing. He mutters the last of the transmissions aloud as he jots them down on the dark green surface.

Finished, Decay drops the chalk back in the can and reads the message as a whole. 

_facility 4 unit 915C unit 332P directive H642-H s-crow location F4-1 activate s-crow location F4-2 activate s-crow location F4-5 activate directive H642-G coordinates ++.66769 +-.711819 radius 2 immediate action primary directive H642-G secondary directive B100-G tertiary directive A701-G_

“H642-G,” he notes in a dry, cracking voice. “That’s a new one.” Decay steps back from the board and stumbles into the massive cluster of wires trailing from the generators. He grumbles and takes a moment to disentangle his foot from the mess. Taking care to avoid the electrical cables, Decay starts pacing around the bunker, looking for a small handwritten book that contains explanations for each of the hundreds of BL/Ind. codes.

“Where’s that…” he says, trailing off when he spots it, sitting next to the transmitter on a small desk surface which is probably the cleanest place in the bunker. He picks up the book, careful not to knock over the transmitter.

As he flips through the pages of the thick pocket-sized notebook, he paces around the bunker to his wall of stained and heavily-annotated maps. They’re all meticulously marked with BL/Ind.’s version of coordinates. Decay takes his eyes off the pages of the book to trace over a few of the maps.

He squints back at the chalkboard, rereads the coordinates, and then drags his chalky fingers across one of the maps.

The door in the north wall creaks open a few feet away from Decay and out pokes a sleepy-eyed face plagued by unkempt brown hair and recovering scars. Blurry locates Decay and jerks his head at the chalkboard. “Is that one important?”

Decay nods. He finds a bright yellow pushpin at the edge of the map and jams it into the spot indicated by the coordinates. “Yeah. Three Crows.” He brushes his fingers on the surface of the map surrounding the pushpin. “There are runners living sort of close to this location, aren’t there?”

Blurry emerges completely from his bedroom and examines the map. He nods. “Somewhere here,” he says and leans forwards to point at a space northwest of the pushpin. “What’s going on that needs three Crows and two Dracs? The frick does H642 mean?”

Decay returns his attention to the book. “I’m finding out.” He flips through a few more pages and soon finds the directives matching the codes on the chalkboard. “Got it…”

Migraine ambles out of the room he shares with Blurry with a matching bedhead dyed bright pink. He makes a graceful leap over the blockade of generators and cords and lands in front of the blackboard. He reads what he can understand of the more common terminology and scoffs. “B100-G is their code for avoiding detection,” he remarks. “They’re sending _that_ many Dracs running around in a 2 kilometer-radius in the Zones and BL/Ind.’s trying for _stealth_? Might as well throw in a bunch of fireworks and some signal flares to top it off.”

“Besides the runners there, it’s deserted. It makes sense that they think they can avoid people when they’ve only had encounters in other areas,” Blurry explains. He stretches his back and shoulders, stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets, and waits for Decay to start reading from their bootlegged codebook.

“It’s… uh,” Decay rereads the code and raises his eyebrows. “As far as I can tell, the code is—”  
The speaker bursts to life again, startling everyone in the room. Decay throws the notebook at Blurry and races back to the blackboard. Migraine hands him a piece of chalk and Decay starts writing a new jumble of words. Migraine and Blurry watch him translate the garbled coded nonsense into intelligible human language with rapt attention.

_F4-1 correction primary directive R008-G maintain second primary directive H642-G maintain secondary directive B100-G disregard tertiary directive A701-G_

Decay’s heart chills as he finishes the last words. In his peripheral vision, he notices that Migraine has crossed his arms and is drumming his palms against his sides. The buzz from the light bulb resonates with his thudding heart and fails to comfort his racing mind with its familiarity. 

Decay, Migraine, and Blurry all know that R008-G is only given to a select handful of Crows, all of whom pose the highest threat to Zone runners. It only appears in mission directives when it’s too important to allow any disruptions. Decay, Migraine, and Blurry have stopped reading the explanation in the codebook because the impartial words fail to convey the horrors unleashed by that directive. Infinitely worse than A701-G, which is a command for capture and detainment of interfering runners, R008-G is a nightmare-inducing order that grants a Crow permission to hunt down runners on their own terms. 

Blurry breaks the ice. He shakes the codebook at Decay. “How important is H642-G?”

Decay stares at the floor and slowly clenches his fists. “Really fucking important,” he says. He nods at the codebook. “Read it if you want. It’s an experimental plan that they’re finally testing out. They’re setting up some sort of localized signal-tracking device. The book doesn’t mention how it’s going to be built. It just says it’s intended for tracing the sources of the radio signals by imitating the signature of the primitive receivers out here.”

His words are met with widened eyes and slumping shoulders. “Guess they finally realized Dr. Death built a barrier for those,” Migraine says quietly. “I thought we might get a few more months before they did anything about it.”

Blurry storms over to the radio sitting on the floor under the desk. He unplugs it from the power cord with more force than necessary. “BL/Ind.’s finally serious about this. And they’re giving…” he stomps over to the wall and punches the map of Battery City, “whoever F4-1 is… freedom to kill whoever tries to stop it.” Blurry bangs his head against the wall and lets out a strangled roar.

“We need to get this message out to as many runners as possible,” Decay suggests. 

Migraine walks past Decay toward the door in the west wall. “I can drive over to Dr. Death so he can get the word out before they set up shop. See if they can organize some runners together, get enough people to deal with three fricking Crows.”

“I’ll go with you,” Blurry says instantly. He leaves the book on the desk and follows after Migraine with an air of conviction and a poorly-concealed smile. 

Migraine’s hand freezes on the door handle. His cheeks are darkening in the faint yellow light and he’s not meeting Blurry’s eyes, but he manages to block off Blurry’s path to the door. “Or y-you could stay. You know. Um. There might be more updates. Important stuff.”

Blurry stubbornly pushes past Migraine to open the door. “What we have is important enough. It’s better that both of us go to make sure the message gets there.” He stops in the doorway and brightens his smile for Migraine’s brief glance upwards.

Migraine stares after Blurry long after he turns around to enter the garage. Decay hums knowingly and Migraine jumps at the sound. He flails at the door, torn between following after Blurry and staying to say something to Decay.

“He’s right,” Decay says, encouraging. The situation is serious enough that he doesn’t laugh at Migraine, but Decay can’t resist winking at him and making him more flustered. “You’ve got the important info. I’ll write down the coordinates before you guys head out.”

“Thanks,” Migraine mumbles, staring at his feet. He hesitates in the doorway and takes a single step into the garage. He presses his hands to his cheeks and glances helplessly back at Decay.

Decay gives in. He laughs at Migraine’s antics and gestures for him to leave already. “I’ve got the fort held down, man. Go on and get yourself some sunshine.”

Migraine doesn’t need any more urging. He disappears into the garage. There’s an echoing crash as Migraine runs into the precariously-balanced stack of spare parts near the door.

“Whoa! Are you okay?”

“Y-yeah, I’m fine.” 

“You didn’t hurt yourself? That sounded awful.”

“I’m fine! I, uh… You ready?”

“You’re the one who’s not ready yet, Migraine.”

The argument dissolves and Decay returns his attention to the message. He sighs sadly and places his palm against the dusty surface of the chalkboard. 

_Facility 4_

Facility 4 is hidden away somewhere in Battery City. Decay still doesn’t know the exact location, although he’s tried everything short of driving into the city in a suicide mission. Apart from his own interrogations of runners and information-collectors in the Zones, Decay hasn’t heard that name since he last saw Blood.

 

_Young Blood was wearing that awful Crow uniform and his face was devoid of emotion. He pulled a struggling Decay away from the fighting and dragged him into the shadows behind the gas station._

_“Decay, it’s okay. I’m still here.” Blood tapped the side of his head and flashed a quick grin that left Decay speechless._

_That smile--Young Blood’s smile--was barely noticeable beneath BL/Ind.’s cold killing machine, but it flooded Decay’s brain with hope, a sensation so rare and overwhelming in Decay’s despairing existence. He threw his arms around Blood’s torso and clung tightly to the hated white cloth. Blood smelled like stale chemical wash but Decay could care less. He stretched up and kissed Blood’s soft mouth, fierce and desperate. Blood kissed back and bit gently at Decay’s lips._

_“Blood…” Decay finally whispered. He pressed his open mouth again and again to Blood’s clean skin, wishing he could kiss away the forced cleanliness._

_Blood pulled back and Decay felt like screaming when he shook his head and said, “It has to be Joe now. Until--”_

_Decay interrupted, “Joe. I’m--”_

_Joe covered Decay’s mouth with a finger. “Shh, I have to be back there soon. Just… fuck, I wanted to see you so much. Trick’s with me, but… he’s not good. Sometimes I can still get our Magic Trick out of him, but not in the--”_

_“Where are they keeping you?” Decay demanded. “I’m going to get you both out. I can fix Trick, I know I can. I’ll fix you both.”_

_Joe shook his head. Several ray gun shots hit the ground near their hiding place and they both flinched. Joe grabbed Decay’s face, kissed his forehead, and then forced him to make eye contact. “No, you can’t come looking for us. Trust me. I can get us out, eventually. When that happens, we’ll find our way back to you. Please just stay safe, Decay.”_

_He tried to pull away, but Decay’s grip remained firm on Joe’s uniform. “Where? I need… I need to know.”_

_Joe swallowed. “Facility 4, but you can’t come to Battery City, Decay. We need you out here. Hold down the fort until we get back.”_

_“Yeah.”_

_Joe wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand and turned away. Decay slumped but he let him go, although it hurt to see Joe hiding the traces of their kiss and walking away again. A lump formed in his throat. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. Joe stopped for a long moment that felt like eternity._

_“It wasn’t your fault.”_

_Decay waited until Joe was gone before he spoke again. “But it was.”_

 

Decay doesn’t know how many Crows are in Facility 4. There might be three or there might be three hundred. Still, there’s a chance that at least one of the Crows on this mission might be Blood or Trick.

Migraine knows that. Blurry knows that. They likely didn’t mention it because the last time another runner mentioned Trick, Decay beat the arrogant douchebag until he had to be dragged away by Blurry and Migraine, still screaming obscenities at the motionless bleeding man. At the time, Blurry was on the verge of kicking the fallen runner himself and Migraine had to talk him out of it.

In a despondent trance, Decay writes down coordinates that Dr. Death will understand on a scrap of paper. He drifts across the bunker to the door of the garage. Inside, Blurry is sitting on his bike and waiting near the entrance to the short sloping tunnel that will lead him out of the bunker. Migraine takes the paper from Decay’s hand.

Decay starts to leave the garage, but Blurry stops him with a quick shout. “Wait! Decay.”

“What?”

Blurry’s hands tighten and relax and tighten again on his handlebars. “We’re going to swing by those coordinates after we give Dr. Death the news. Just to see.”

Decay smiles again. “Thanks.”

Blurry nods and Migraine mounts his own bike. They fix their skull balaclavas and colorfully painted helmets over their heads and leave the garage with identical engine roars.

Decay returns to the main room of the bunker and rereads the message four more times. He should erase it; they have the information and they might need the space for another transmission. However, he can’t tear his eyes away from the F4 numbers.

Blood might be F4-1.

Trick might be F4-1.

Decay doesn’t know which option is worse. His mind procures images of both of them mindlessly shooting at runners, at Blurry and Migraine. He shudders and struggles to force those toxic thoughts out of his head before he does something drastic. 

He eventually leaves the board as is, trudges back onto his pile of clothes and blankets, taking comfort in the bunker’s clutter. Decay closes his eyes and begins the long wait for another transmission.

\------ [~~] ------

Decay keeps the sloppy written messages on the chalkboard. His hands shake every time he rereads them. Trying to rewrite them in neater script would inevitably end in much sloppier letters and numbers. The electrical hum of the bunker only serves to resonate with the droning thrum of his heartbeat.

At the start of his tense vigil, Decay attempts to occupy his time by rummaging in the crates of food for something that Blurry and Migraine can eat when they return. There are fruits and vegetables in jars, dried starches in boxes, dried meat and fruit in sealed bags, and enough cans to feed a small army for weeks. The food and cool well water is luxurious compared to the rations other runners eat. 

After setting aside an assortment of cans (peaches, green beans, vegetable soup, and kidney beans) and the jar of peanut butter they opened late last night, Decay grabs a well-worn paperback and lies in his bed. As soon as he stops moving, his foot starts tapping a regular rhythm on the wall. 

Decay opens the book. He closes the book. He drops it on his chest. He picks it up and clenches it in his sweaty palms. 

He can’t do much now except wait. Wait for another transmission, wait for Blurry and Migraine, wait for the Dracs to smash his door in and haul him off to Battery City and set the bunker on fire. 

Decay rubs his thumbs against the book’s wrinkled spine and thinks instead of the terrain that Blurry and Migraine are traveling through. Dr. Death Defying’s station isn’t far from the bunker on a motorcycle, but the location indicated by the coordinates is at least a full hour’s drive from the radio station. Decay doesn’t know how long it’s been since they left.

Decay opens the book and closes it again. He stares at the ceiling and curses himself a dozen times for sending Migraine and Blurry out into the Zones. Sure, they’re better with their ray guns and Blood taught them all about self-defense and Trick taught them how to fix their bikes if they broke down… but something could _always_ happen to them. _Anything_ could happen to them.

The book hits the wall and bounces off a Zone runner’s wanted poster before Decay even realizes he’s thrown it away from himself. It falls onto the thick plastic cover of the well with a thud. Decay groans and closes his eyes and pretends that he wants to sleep when all he can do is think of a million different bad scenarios.

What feels like eons of restlessness later, Decay sits upright in his bed at the muffled sound of an engine. He falls off the small mountain of clothes and scrambles over to drag open the door to the garage. 

“Please both be okay,” Decay whispers to the garage, which is just as cluttered as the rest of the bunker, but most of the mess is shoved against the walls to make room for the two working motorcycles and the three partial bikes at the south end. 

Soon, he distinguishes the sound as two separate motorcycles. Decay breathes a sigh of relief and feels most of the strained muscles in his back and neck relaxing. Moments later, Blurry and Migraine roll into the garage and maneuver a tight U-turn to face the exit again. They kill their engines, one after the other, and then take their helmets off. 

“Decay!” they both shout in near-unison. Migraine glances at Blurry and nods for him to continue. Blurry pulls off his balaclava and runs his hands through his hair while Migraine leans back on his bike seat and cradles his splatter-painted helmet in his lap.

“Dr. Death knows what’s going on?” Decay asks. Another question hangs on the tip of his tongue, but he dreads voicing it. Hope is a dangerous thing in the Zones, especially when a person has lost his lovers and is clinging to two kids like they’re his last lifelines before he drowns in the sand dunes. Decay braces himself instead. He remains rooted in the doorway, prepared for whatever news Blurry and Migraine have for him. 

Blurry dismounts his bike and approaches Decay, wringing his sweaty mask. “He started a broadcast for that before we left,” Blurry assures Decay. “Said he’d aim for getting some runners to organize and plan for hitting the Dracs and Crows by daybreak tomorrow. Until then, he’s keeping the radio quiet.”

“That’s… great.” Decay says awkwardly, barely holding himself back from grabbing Blurry and shaking the rest of the information out of him. 

“Then we went to the coordinates and watched for the Dracs to show up. We saw the three Crows too.” Blurry is dragging his boot along the sandy floor of the garage and fidgeting nervously. “Yeah, and… we saw Trick. Not Blood, but… we left as soon as we saw him. Thought you should know--”

Decay’s body goes slack and he falls against the door frame. Blurry looks at him in concern. “Hey, Decay? You--” 

“Trick’s there,” Decay breathes. His next actions are automatic: he grabs a dusty red splatter-painted helmet from a hook on the wall and jumps onto the back of Migraine’s bike seat. Migraine stills and twists around to meet Decay’s fiery expression. The majority of Migraine’s face is hidden by his skull balaclava, but his eyes reflect the grim determination thrumming in Decay’s soul. 

“Please,” Decay whispers. 

Migraine turns back around. “I’ve got a spare ray gun in the right saddlebag,” he says. He re-fastens his helmet and starts his engine. Decay links his arms around Migraine’s waist and they’re out of the tunnel in a roar of sound and a rush of wind. Decay watches the radio tower and satellite dish above the bunker shrink in the distance as they zoom away. He waits until Blurry’s bike comes faintly into view after them, then turns back to face the desert before him.

The moon is already high in the darkening sky, although the edges still bleed red and gold. Glittering stars illuminate the deep purple and blue canopy above the rumbling motorcycles and their riders. The daytime creatures are hidden away in their burrows and, even at the bike’s top speed, Decay can just barely catch glimpses of the creatures of the night. Decay closes his eyes and leans his helmeted head against Migraine’s back. 

Migraine’s hand taps once against Decay’s helmet. He shouts over the deafening wind. “Does the short-range work in that?”

Decay adjusts his grip on Migraine and reaches to the switches at the base of his helmet. He flips one and says, “Are you getting that?”

There’s a muffled sigh that comes through the miniature speaker inside the helmet. “That’s better than shouting ourselves hoarse,” Migraine says. 

“Migraine, I, um.” Decay’s words falter. “Sorry. Sorry for dragging you back. And Blurry. I mean. Back at the bunker, I was… I should have, planned this out or something. Instead of--”

“What are you talking about?” Migraine snaps. 

Decay opens his eyes and raises his head, although all he can see of Migraine is his back and helmet. “I wasn’t thinking clearly. I-- You mentioned Trick and--”

“Do you think we don’t want to save him?” Migraine says sharply. Decay is about to respond when the motorcycle leaves the ground for an instant and soars over a rather tall dune. They land with a jarring clunk that sends numbing shocks through Decay’s lower back. 

“Me and Blurry have things in our bags,” Migraine adds. Decay can hear the confident smirk in his tone. “Even you don’t know what we’ve got. We’re ready for this. Been ready for a while, Decay.”

Decay whispers, “You… you guys…”

“We don’t think Trick is the one who’s there to kill off threats.” Blurry’s voice interrupts their short-range conversation. Decay twists around on the seat again and finds Blurry’s bike closer than before, now within range of the weak helmet radio. “Looked like he was one of the ones setting up the tech. We didn’t recognize anyone else.”

“Still gotta find a way past F4-1,” Migraine says. “Not sure if we can take them down. Not on our own, even with the stuff we’ve got. Waiting for more runners could increase the odds.”

“The runners don’t know Trick like we do.” Decay says, mouth set in a tight frown. “Fuck, and there’s two Drac units and three Crows. They might just kill them all.” Nobody speaks for a long time after that declaration. In the radio silence, the wind thunders in their ears and bites at their exposed skin. Shivering, Decay finds Migraine’s jacket pockets and buries his hands in them.

\------ [~~] ------

Migraine and Blurry leave the bikes behind a rocky dune that contains faint traces of matching tire marks. Decay finds Migraine’s spare ray gun and checks the charge. It’s not full, but it’s much better than nothing, which is what Decay would have if Migraine isn’t so well-prepared.

They set out into the cold desert, following Blurry and keeping their eyes peeled for Drac patrols. 

“It’s not far from here,” Blurry says, keeping his voice low. “This is just as far as we were willing to ride the bikes.”

Decay keeps his finger under the guard. His body is on edge and he doesn’t trust himself not to jump at any sound or sign of movement. Blurry and Migraine appear to be doing better, but Decay knows how inexperienced they are. If they run into F4-1, the outcome would be disastrous.

They’re reaching the top of a rocky hill when an unexpected sound echoes over the empty desert like a thunderclap.

“Yeeeehaw, baby!! _Fuck_ all a’y’all Scarecrows!” The megaphone-amplified shout is accompanied by the unnecessarily loud revving of a pair of V8 engines and quickly followed by a dozen zapping ray gun shots. 

Decay, Blurry, and Migraine all stare open-mouthed at one another in horror. They race to the top of the hill and stop to gape at the scene below. A skeletal three-seater hot rod with an upside-down train cattle guard is driving in a wide circle around two BL/Ind. vans and six white motorbikes. The garish car’s neon orange paint job is illuminated by the BL/Ind. lights. It casts orange-tinted headlights across the scene below.

From his vantage point, Decay watches a matching pair of orange-clad passengers lean out of the hot rod and hang off the sides. The driver, wearing a blue-green overcoat that clashes with the others’ colors, continues shouting at the Dracs. She swerves in an erratic path and runs over four consecutive Dracs who don’t move out of her way in time. The cattle guard forces each Drac under the oversized wheels with a meaty crunch.

The passengers have a harder time aiming due to the sharp turns. One of them moves back into the hot rod and picks off two Dracs at once. The other remains seated on the edge, firing barbarically at a single Drac until she finally hits it near the heart.

Decay tears his gaze away from the runners and checks each of the fallen white bodies, the standing bodies, and the solitary cloaked white figure aiming carefully at the hot rod. “Is that Trick?” Decay whispers. The person has a long gray scarf wrapped around his neck that flaps in the breeze and distinguishes him from the Dracs around him.

“No, that’s not him,” Blurry says. “The rest look like Dracs. Trick might still be in one of those vans.”

There’s a wailing scream from below. Decay looks back at the runners. The driver is forced to take a sharp turn away from a cluster of ten Dracs shooting at the car. At the same moment, one of the runners falls backwards out of the hot rod. She clutches at a darkening spot on her stomach and pulls herself shakily up to aim her ray gun at the Crow advancing towards her. 

“F4-1,” Migraine says under his breath. 

Without breaking his stride, the Crow shoots the runner in the head several times, pauses a second to kick at the body, then turns and strolls back to one of the motorbikes. He climbs onto the bike, ignites the engine, and revs menacingly.

“One down,” he taunts loudly. He drives the bike around the face the hot rod, which is careening farther away from the fallen runner.

“NO!!” one of the other runners screams. “You _fucker_!” The car spins around and charges at the Crow, who charges at them as well. The two vehicles pass each other about a dozen yards away from the vans and there’s another cry of pain from the runners.The hot rod flies off into the desert and the Crow follows in pursuit. Five Dracs take the other bikes and vanish into the night after the runners and the Crow. 

Blurry grabs Decay’s arm. “Decay,” he says, breathing fast. “This can be our chance. If we can get Trick away before F4-1 comes back--”

“Trick doesn’t remember us,” Decay points out, hating the words as soon as they were out. 

Blurry shakes his head. “Then knock him out or something, Decay! Me and Migraine’ll get the bikes so we can make a quick getaway.”

“You think you can get him by the time we get back?” Migraine asks, eyeing the sizable swarm of Dracs below.

Decay counts the Dracs that are still up. Seven. Seven Dracs, plus the other two Crows mentioned by the BL/Ind. transmission, which are likely working on the tracking device in one of the vans. He narrows his eyes. “Yeah, I’ve got this.”

Migraine presses his ray gun into Decay’s other hand. “Just in case.” Blurry grabs Migraine’s hand and together, the two sprint back in the direction they left their bikes. 

Decay lowers himself to a crouch and places Migraine’s ray gun on the ground beside him. He slides his trigger finger past the guard and steadies the gun with his now-empty hand. He lines up his first shot, plans out the next few shots, and finally takes a slow, deep breath. 

“Surprise, motherfuckers,” he whispers and squeezes the trigger once.

The first Drac cries out in pain and falls from a shot to the neck. Decay grits his teeth and rapidly adjusts his aim before taking a second, third, fourth, fifth shot. Miss, shoulder shot, neck shot of the same Drac--that one’s going down--and the last is a perfect headshot. The Dracs are noticing where the shots are coming from and moving to better cover. 

Decay stands up and focuses on two Dracs who have the greatest distance to run to cover. The first of them falls after three shots; the second after four. By now, the remaining Dracs are hidden behind the vans. Decay spares a quick look at the gun’s charge. The twelve shots have put a dent in the power, but it’s still got at least two dozen more.

Decay grabs Migraine’s ray gun from the dirt and sets off full speed down the hill. One of the Dracs pops its head out from behind the van and shoots at Decay.

A blast grazes Decay’s arm and he winces but keeps running. He lifts both ray guns and shoots wildly at the Drac. None of his shots hit, but they force it back into its cover. 

Decay lands hard on his feet at the base of the hill and forces himself onwards. He passes the dead runner and several dead Dracs and pointedly ignores the burning stench of death by ray gun. The same Drac steps partially out from its cover one more time and shoots at Decay.

Decay screams wordlessly and shoots continually from the spare ray gun in an attempt to throw off the Drac. It works, to an extent. The Drac steps back as Decay advances, but both miss each other until a lucky shot hits the Drac in the chest. 

The Drac falls to its knees, clutching at its bleeding chest. 

Decay stops running for a second to take better aim at the Drac. His ray gun clicks. Fuck, was that already twenty-four? Momentarily disoriented, Decay tosses the empty weapon to the side and transfers Migraine’s ray gun to his dominant hand. It’s shaking now. 

Fuck, why _now_?

The side door of the van opens forcefully and slams into the injured Drac’s skull with a sickening splat. Decay grimaces, but his disgust is forgotten when he sees the person stepping out of the van.

He’s wearing a uniform similar to Joe: too white, too different. His hair is clean and his face is tight with the strict discipline BL/Ind.’s drilled into his mind. Decay’s chest lurches when he remembers how Trick had smiled and kissed his forehead the last time they were together. 

There’s no hint of a smile on Trick’s face. He looks at the dead Dracs, appearing little more than inconvenienced.

“Trick,” Decay says. His voice is shaking as badly as his hands. “Trick. It’s me. Decay Dance. You remember me.”

Trick draws a white ray gun in a fluid gesture that is all too familiar. Decay jumps and his instincts are torn: go to Trick like the fool he is or get the fuck out of the way. Without a shred of remorse, Trick aims at Decay and switches the safety off. 

Decay throws himself to the side as Trick fires. The first blast from Trick’s ray gun misses, but the second doesn’t. Decay howls and clutches at his burning, bleeding side, just below his ribs. He presses his hands to the wound and fights the urge to writhe in his agony. 

“Trick, please,” Decay gasps. He rolls onto his back so he can meet Trick’s face and he pleads, “Don’t.”

Trick walks towards Decay, ray gun fixed on Decay’s face. His eyes narrow and his finger starts to press once more against the trigger--

“A701-G,” Decay shouts suddenly, surprising both himself and Trick. The directive is only in Decay’s mind because of how many times he reread the messages, but… He watches Trick, panting and quivering in pain. 

Trick lowers his ray gun a fraction of an inch. “How do you know that?” With his free hand, he bends down and grabs Decay’s shirt. “Tell me!” Trick shouts, shaking him. 

Migraine’s gun is too far away to reach; Decay dropped it when he was hit. He springs up and throws himself at Trick, grabbing the ray gun and pulling it upwards. The two fall heavily backwards, which jars Decay’s wound painfully. He doesn’t let go of the gun and tries to twist it out of Trick’s grasp. 

They roll on the dirty ground for a few seconds, smearing each other with dirt and blood. Trick releases his grip on Decay’s shirt and clamps his hand around Decay’s neck. As the pressure builds around his windpipe, Decay forces two fingers to the trigger and pulls hard. 

If he’s lucky, he can empty it of most of its charge before Trick can throw him off. With the tight hand around his throat, Decay doesn’t register where the too-powerful shots are going until he hears two separate shouts of pain. Both Trick and Decay look in the direction of the sounds.

The last Drac and the other Crow are dead. Decay grins in spite of his situation.

“Checkmate, Trick,” he chokes. 

Trick yells in anger. He flips Decay onto the ground and rips the emptied ray gun out of Decay’s hands, then throws it to the side. Both of his hands are around Decay’s throat in a vice-like stranglehold. Decay grabs Trick’s wrists and pulls uselessly at them. 

He can’t even make another snarky comment to get a reaction out of Trick. The pain in his side feels distant and his vision is dimming, but at least he can see Trick. At least…

Time slows to a crawl.

Darkness. 

Pounding blood. 

Shouting. 

Roaring engines. 

_Trick._

\------ [~~] ------

The transmitter is relaying a message, but it’s too quiet. Decay can’t focus on it. His left side is throbbing and his skull is thick with something he slowly recognizes as pain medication. He smells rusty dried blood and expired antibiotic burn cream. Decay’s mind swims lazily through the sensations, unable to hold onto anything for too long.

The message is faint and unimportant.

Wait.

No. 

Everything is important. _Everything._

And Decay’s the only one who can--

Decay’s eyes snap open and he’s staring at the ceiling of the bunker. The transmitter is actually sending out its garbled code words, but it’s not loud enough. Decay listens to it and tries to concentrate on the words.

Something about Dracs. Something about a directive that sounds familiar, but Decay can’t distinguish it between three possible code words. He needs it louder.

Decay tenses his chest to sit up and his side suddenly blazes with pain. Decay rests back on… his bed?

Decay’s brain is sluggish due to all the medications that someone--probably Migraine--have given him. As he works on recalling his memories, he takes inventory of his injuries. His neck and arm are sore, but they are nowhere near as bad as his side, although that’s apparently been treated. 

His side… which was shot… right before Trick tried to strangle him to death.

The faint sound of the transmission fades away and Decay can hear someone writing on the chalkboard. Decay turns his aching neck and catches sight of Blurry standing in front of the board. He writes down a few words.

Decay knows that isn’t enough of the message. Blurry can understand some of the code words, but not enough. That’s Decay’s job. Yet, at the moment, his usual obsessive reaction doesn’t seem necessary. It feels better to lie in bed.

It also hurts to move. Decay remains in the same position and roves his eyes across what he can see of the rest of the bunker. Migraine is nowhere to be seen, so Decay guesses he’s back in his and Blurry’s room. 

Decay peels his dry cracking lips apart and forces sound to come out of his parched and bruised throat. “Blurry.”

Blurry jerks away from the board. “Decay?” He drops the chalk in the can and rushes over to Decay’s bed. “God, you’re awake. Thank God.” He clenches his hands in his hair and drags them slowly down his face.

“Wh--” Decay breaks off. His throat feels like it’s been coated in sand. 

“I’ve got some water,” Blurry says quickly. He grabs a canteen from the floor beside Decay’s bed, unscrews the lid, and hesitates. “Uh, do you need help sitting up?”

Decay rolls his eyes. 

Blurry chuckles and closes the canteen. Leaning over Decay, he braces his hands under each of Decay’s elbows. With Blurry’s help and only a small amount of tugging on the dressed wounds, Decay lifts his upper body into a sort of sitting position. Blurry shoves a pile of clothes to support Decay’s back. He hands the canteen to Decay.

Decay is about to take a drink but stops moving when he sees a dirt-coated white figure sitting on the ground near the well, leaning against a heavy wooden crate. Stunned, Decay mouths, _Trick._

Blurry shakes his head quickly. “Not now. He’s not hurt, but…”

Decay’s hands fumble to open the canteen. Half of his body feels rubbery from lying down and the other half feels like it’s burning itself to heal. Decay remembers to sip from the canteen to avoid inhaling the water--coughing water out of his lungs would be _murder_ on his throat and side. 

Blurry leans on the wall next to Decay. “He was close to killing you when we dragged him off and knocked him unconscious. Migraine rushed you back. You’ve been out for a day.” He takes a slow breath. “Do you feel light-headed? Migraine didn’t think you lost too much blood, but… blood transfusions…”

“Don’t need one.” Decay sips more water. Neither Migraine nor Blurry know their blood type. To attempt a transfusion despite that might seriously harm Decay. He feels dizzy, but he can fix that with water and food. Briefly, he wonders if Blurry and Migraine found the canned food he left out. 

“Migraine’s gonna be happy you’re up. We were thinking of getting help if you didn’t wake up by tomorrow morning.”

Decay is glad they didn’t. He stares at Trick, who gives the impression of being asleep. Decay’s voice is still strained when he asks, “Any trackers?”

“If there are any on Trick, they’re fried. I set off an EMP before I took him away from there. If they got the radio thing running, it’s dead too now.” 

Decay cocks his head. Ow. Should have done that more slowly. “EMP? Where did--?”

Blurry grins. “Traded for it a couple weeks ago. I was saving it for something important in case it might just be single-use.”

“What did you trade?”

“Uh,” Blurry scratches the back of his neck and bites at a wide smile pulling at his face. “Remember those huge cans of pumpkin pie filling? We might be short… five of them.”

Decay laughs shortly, which massively hurts the wound on his side. “Fuck. What idiot trades an EMP for pumpkin pie?” He takes a few more sips of water. 

“An idiot living off MREs traded an EMP for pumpkin pie filling,” Blurry corrects. “Those things are apparently supposed to last forever, but they sacrifice quality for their immortality. He might have been happy with only four cans, but he offered me the nicer EMP if I brought him five.”

There’s a loud thump from Trick’s direction. Decay moves his head too quickly again in his rush to see the cause. Trick is still sitting, but he’s pulling hard on several short lengths of rope that have him bound to the crate. He glowers at Blurry, then catches sight of Decay. 

“You’re still alive,” he says with a hint of disappointment.

“You… don’t remember me?” Decay asks, deflating. 

Trick thrashes against the crate, barely budging it from its position. “Why am I still alive?”

Decay’s hands fist in the pile of messy clothes. “Trick,” he says, controlling his voice to make it last as long as he can. “We’d never hurt you. I’m… I love you, Trick.” He breaks off and swallows, which is torment. He keeps talking slowly. “Me and Blood love you. Remember Blood? He’s Joe, from Facility 4.”

Trick grinds his teeth. “I don’t know you,” he hisses. 

Decay braces himself against the stinging pain and slides off the bed. Blurry jumps to support him. Together, they approach Trick.

“Let me down,” Decay murmurs to Blurry when they’re close to Trick, but still out of range if he tries to kick at them. Blurry guides him down.

Decay steels himself as he meets Trick’s cold stare. This is what he’s been waiting for. Trick’s mind might be a little confused, but at least he’s here and not in Battery City anymore. He’s here, and Decay can save him. There’s no way Trick’s memories can be gone. Decay just has to find the right one.

Very slowly, and with plenty of breaks for air and water, Decay speaks.

“Trick. This place. Me and you and Blood live here. Have for years. We found it after that dust storm. You smashed the door down… ‘cause you were so pissed that your gas tank was full of sand.” Trick is still seething and pulling at the ropes. He’s not interrupting, so Decay takes a long drink from the canteen and keeps going. “Took Blood so long to fix the bikes so… so we could get our shit from our old shack.”

“I don’t know you,” Trick repeats icily.

Decay frowns. He takes increasingly ragged breaths before continuing. “Yes you do. We met through Blood. You were so fucking tiny. I was short too, but you were smaller. Definitely cuter. Blood was also really cute.” Decay smiles fondly. His throat is on fire and the water does little to soothe it. “But yeah, this is our home.”

“This isn’t my home. I’m not associated with you.”

“It’s our home. And Blurry, and Migraine. You’re the dad… Blood is also the dad… I’m the dad who lets the kids stay up late and read dirty--” A sharp pang of pain shoots through Decay’s side and he places a hand over it. It doesn’t feel like it’s bleeding yet.

Blurry rests his head lightly on Decay’s shoulder. He’s placed another canteen of water beside Decay.

“We need to change that soon,” Blurry says.

Decay takes a break from talking and watches Trick’s face for any sign of recognition. When Trick’s expression doesn’t change from its scowl, Decay forces down another small mouthful of water and starts again. 

“Remember when we found Blurry and Migraine? Transmission about kids escaping the city. We all went out… though it was hot as hell. Sweating all the way to the fight. That runner who got them out was dying.” Decay stops to lick his lips. Talking endlessly like this is so _not_ good for this throat, but he wants to keep trying. “Blurry and Migraine took the runner’s weapons. They were fighting back. So fucking cool. And when the Dracs were dead you wanted to adopt--”

Decay is cut off by the transmitter. Even with the volume turned low, everyone in the main room hears it. Decay stills and listens intently while Trick’s face tightens in anger. 

“Warning, Crow, rogue,” Decay translates drily. “F4-11. Last coordinates… uh. Yeah.”

“You…” Trick growls, distracting Decay from the rest of the message. “You steal our communications. You _understand_ them.”

Decay shrugs. “Yeah. I know what they mean.” He smiles at Trick’s furious face. “It’s our thing. Blood got the maps and the codes. You took apart the Drac transmitter… and built the tower. I translate the stuff. Blurry and Migraine--they get the word out. Since you and Blood’ve been gone.”

“BL/Ind. needs to know about you.”

“Ha,” Decay says without energy. It still strains against the damaged muscles of his throat. He moves his hand to rub along the ray gun burn on his arm to distract himself with another source of pain. “You insisted I avoid fighting Dracs. So BL/Ind. wouldn’t find out about me. Finally convinced me, but it took a few days.” Decay’s voice sounds ready to crack. The water really isn’t helping. “I never told you, but I waited longer because… you two can be so fucking sexy when you’re trying to get me to agree…”

Trick clams up. Blurry stands up behind Decay. “You need to eat, Decay.”

“Okay.”

\------ [~~] ------

After he paces through two cans of soup and some more water, Decay informs Blurry that he’ll be fine on the floor and lets him retreat to the bedroom. He tries more happy stories and laces them with reminders of how much they all care for each other. His throat is still agonizingly sore, so he leaves gaps of silence in between each story to let it relax.

Trick isn’t pulling at his restraints anymore. He stares at Decay silently and allows Decay’s wavering stories to wash over him. He’s given up lashing out at Decay with BL/Ind.-typical responses.

Decay will take that as a small victory. Keeping a positive mood is helping to keep himself awake and enthusiastic, even when his voice sounds like death. 

“Are you hungry, Trick?” Decay smiles brightly at Trick. The gesture isn’t reciprocated. “Plenty to choose from in here. I can feed you. Not like I haven’t done that before, heh.” Decay holds back a wince. He should stop trying to laugh. “You were so fucking concentrated on that transmitter… and you forgot about eating. Blood and I made food for you. And you kept telling us, ‘one more minute,’ so I--”

A dull thud startles Decay from finishing. A dull thud _from the garage which is supposed to be **empty**_. Chills race down Decay’s neck and spine. “The fuck…”

Trick is eyeing the garage door, biting his bottom lip in a way that is really fucking cute but Decay can’t appreciate it in this situation. He pushes himself painfully to his feet. 

Decay rapidly searches the clutter around him for a weapon. He checks paper-laden tables, open boxes, and crates of worthless junk, but there’s nothing. Where are all the ray guns? There should be something lying around that he can use to defend himself, right? His increasing panic is stimulated by a soft shuffling sound. Decay curses internally.

He’s _defenseless_ and _injured_ and Trick’s going to have to watch him die right here in their supposedly-safe haven before he remembers who Decay is. Decay slaps his palm against his forehead, holding back the need to scream at himself. 

Decay grabs a large can of pinto beans and holds it to his chest, careful not to lift it too high. He doesn’t need to rip his wound open on top of all the shit that’s going down. Taking baby steps, Decay inches over to wait against the wall right beside the garage door. 

There’s a louder thud, much closer than the last one. For a single fearful moment, Decay wonders if the intruder is here to steal their bikes. While that would be detrimental to their survival, at least they’ll stay alive.

Then the door opens and someone clad in white runs at Decay. Decay flinches and raises the can high above his head, but skin around his wound starts to pull uncomfortably. Ow. The can slips out of his hands and falls to the floor behind him with a shattering bang. Pinto beans and clouded brown liquid spills all over the floor, the crates, and Decay’s legs. 

“DECAY!” The intruder runs straight into Decay and wraps his arms around his upper torso. Decay blinks. The man’s voice is familiar. So is the dark brown curly hair that’s rubbing across Decay’s face as the man squashes his damp face against Decay’s shoulder. So is the way Decay is being held and… kissed.

It can’t be…

It would take a miracle…

But, Trick is here. That’s a miracle in itself. And don’t they all deserve a few happy miracles?

“Blood?” Decay breathes. He lowers his arms and clamps onto the person hanging onto him. He inhales shakily. The trace of BL/Ind. disinfectant is there, but it’s also smothered with sweat and body odor and creosote and desert dust. Decay buries his nose in the curly hair. He’ll never forget those smells.

“Decay, I’m so sorry,” Blood is talking too fast, with none of his usual calm. “They--I was out… they sent him out… heard that runners killed him and the others. I didn’t believe it, but I got there and it was all burning. _Fuck,_ Trick’s dead and I--”

“Trick’s not dead,” Decay protests. He pulls away from Blood and takes one arm away from his lover to point in the corner, where Trick is silently watching the two of them with narrowed eyes. “We took him away. Blurry and Migraine and me, we… He’s here.”

“Trick…” Blood releases Decay. He swivels back and forth, taking in the sight of both Decay and Trick in the same room. “Fuck. You… are you okay, Decay?” he asks breathlessly, seeing the bandages around Decay’s waist for the first time. 

Decay touches the spot where the bandages are covering the blast wound and flinches. It’s sticky with fresh blood. “Don’t worry. It’ll heal.”

“Your voice--”

“I’ll get better.”

Blood’s lips pull downward. He picks up Decay in a bridal carry and hauls him over to delicately place him on the floor almost directly beside Trick. Blood settles down in the space between Trick and Decay and hugs them both, one arm around each of his lovers. Trick makes an effort to tug away from Blood, but that only makes Blood pull him closer and put more strain on the ropes.

Decay leans against Blood and winds his arms around him. He catches sight of Trick’s heated glare and sighs. “I--can’t get Trick to remember. What did they do?”

“If it was the same thing they did to me, then we can break it,” Blood reassures him. 

He cracks a smile and presses a chaste kiss to Decay’s lips. Decay returns it with a longer kiss and catches Blood’s lower lip as he tilts his head backward. He grins and climbs halfway into Blood’s lap and kisses him again, longer this time. Blood leans back against the crate and opens his mouth to Decay’s tongue. Decay licks along Blood’s tongue and tastes traces of dust. He makes a face and pulls away for a moment.

“You been eating sand?”

Blood bumps his forehead affectionately against Decay’s. “I was in a hurry.”

The door to Blurry and Migraine’s room opens and knocks loudly against the wall of the bunker. 

“Decay, what was--” Blurry starts.

“Wait--is that Young Blood?” Migraine says over Blurry. 

Decay smiles and kisses Blood so that neither are able to give the obvious answer. He has enough time to let Blood bite gently at his lips, and then, after a brief sound of someone slipping on the bunker floor, Migraine and Blurry are on the ground beside them. Decay pulls away and lets the two push into his space. Together, they hug Blood in an uncoordinated bundle of heads and arms. Decay grins when he sees that Migraine’s legs are smeared with squashed pinto beans.

Their happy reunion is abruptly shattered when Trick starts kicking repeatedly at Decay’s ray gun wound. Decay’s vision is white as hot agony pulses through his body; he twists and falls onto his back and holds both hands against the bandages, which are leaking a steadier flow of blood. Migraine rapidly moves to block off Trick from Decay and tries to gently move Decay to safety.

Blood jumps to his feet, shouting, “What the _hell_ , Trick? Snap the fuck out of it!” Trick leers at him and kicks at Migraine’s back. “Trick, cut it out!”

Blurry leaps at Trick and lands on his flailing legs. “We gave him a concussion earlier; knock him out again!”

“Which side?”

“Does it matter?” Blurry shouts.

Blood’s hands are in fists and his eyes are blazing. He crosses over Decay lying on the floor of the bunker and starts hunting for a blunt object.

“Don’t use a can,” Decay pleads. Migraine chuckles.

“Is that why there are beans all over the floor?”

Decay’s explanation is cut off when he returns with his instrument of choice: an actual instrument. From his supine position on the cool metal ground, Decay watches Blood storm over to Trick and Blurry. He’s speechless, but Migraine and Blurry are certainly not.

“Wait, no Blood, that’s Blurry’s ukulele--” Migraine protests.

Blurry screeches. “DON’T TOUCH MY UKULELE!” 

Whump. Trick groans in pain.

“Give that back! Oh, God, I hope you didn’t put a dent in it…”

Decay can’t see anything with Migraine in the way and Migraine isn’t giving any clues with his back turned on him. He moans and his eyes start to slide shut. 

“What th--Blood! Did you just hit me with a ukulele?!” 

Decay’s eyes snap open. The bunker falls silent, apart from the electrical buzz of the generators and light bulb, as well as Blurry mourning his instrument.

_Trick._

**Author's Note:**

> I've been writing for years now, but I've only recently discovered bandslash. I think it's an amazing creative outlet and I'd love to contribute more to it, but I'm worried that my characterization isn't the best. I'll work on getting better in the future.


End file.
